Dough Boy sniffed like a hunting dog around the alley. First he checked out the trailer across the gravel lane, peeking over the fence and looking under the trailer’s wooden porch. He’d spot us soon enough.
I whispered, “We’ve got to get off this porch.”
“Follow me,” Trina said. “I’m good at hiding, remember?”
Down the steps Trina crept, with me close behind. The creak of the wood sounded like fingernails across a chalkboard. Trina held up her hand, stopping me. Dough Boy didn’t turn around. I started to breathe again. Trina motioned me off the creaky steps and toward a fence that divided this trailer from the one behind it.
She crawled over the fence like a Ninja. I headed to the wooden fence and started to climb, but I got stuck on the top. Trina grabbed my arm and yanked me over. I yelped, but she clamped her hand over my mouth and signalled me to crouch low. She pointed at the road that ran past the new trailer. Patrick jogged along the lane, searching for us. I didn’t breathe until he ran past us. Trina and I were trapped between trailers.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.” Why was Trina growling?
“Shhh,” I hissed.
“It’s not me,” Trina said. “It’s him.” She pointed behind her.
A giant St. Bernard drooled at us. He placed his giant paws on either side of a giant bone and let out a deep “WOOOOOF!”
I nearly crapped my pants.
“Run,” I said.
Trina grabbed my shirt. “He’ll chase anything that runs.”
“If we stay, he’s going to eat us.”
“I have a dog. She doesn’t like sudden movements. Back up slowly. Don’t look at the bone. He thinks we’re trying to take it.”
We inched back from the dark-eyed beast. He stopped growling, but kept looking at us. We reached the fence and caught our breath. Suddenly a pair of pudgy hands grabbed me. Dough Boy! He pulled me over the fence. Beside him, Patrick hauled Trina up.
“Well, well, well. Look at what we have here,” Dough Boy said.
“Put us down,” I demanded.
“Looks like we found our spies,” Patrick said.
“Hel-lo. We were playing with the dog,” Trina said.
“You want to go back in there?” Dough Boy said.
The St. Bernard barked.
“No. No. That’s okay,” I said. “We’re done playing.”
“Hey Patrick, do you want to hang them over the fence by their ankles?” Dough Boy asked.
Patrick laughed. “Not a bad idea.”
“You’re going to be very sorry if you don’t let us go,” Trina warned.
“Shut up,” Dough Boy said.
Patrick said, “You’re the ones who’re gonna be sorry.”
“The police are expecting me,” I said.
“They’ll have to wait ‘til you get your story straight.” Then Patrick called to Warren at the end of the alley. “Hey! Get Beth. Now!”
The gawky goon waved back.
Dough Boy shook me. “What did you hear in the cemetery?”
“We heard enough,” I said.
“We know you painted the graffiti,” Trina said triumphantly.
Patrick chuckled. “Who’s going to believe a couple of kids?”
Dough Boy agreed. “It’s your word against ours.”
“We have proof,” I said.
“Where?” Patrick asked.
“The police have it,” Trina said.
Beth and Warren arrived. Four against two — the odds didn’t look good. I tried to squirm free, but Dough Boy had a good grip on me.
Warren glanced around, “Guys, we’d better move somewhere quiet before the neighbours see us and ask questions.”
“We’ll say we saved the kids from the dog. Isn’t that right, Chinatown?” Dough Boy shook me.
Patrick snarled, “What’s the evidence the cops have?”
Trina said, “Ask them.”
“Chinatown, you’ll tell me, won’t you?” Patrick asked.
Beads of sweat poured down my forehead. “What Trina said.”
“The kid looks nervous, doesn’t he?” Patrick asked.
Dough Boy shook me again. “You sure the cops have this evidence, whatever it is?” he asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
“You sure you don’t have this evidence?”
“No. Yes.” I clamped my hand over my mouth.
“Warren, search him,” Patrick barked.
Warren checked my pockets while Dough Boy held me.
“Stay out of there!” I yelled. “That tickles.”
Warren pulled out a used tissue, a nickel, and Beth’s earring.
“This look familiar?” Warren asked Beth.
Dough Boy glared at Beth. “I knew it had to be your fault.”
She ignored him. “Without evidence, Chinatown and his girlfriend can talk but no one’ll believe them.”
Warren looked worried. “They’ll still talk.”
“If you two yap about this,” Patrick threatened us, “we’ll come looking for you. You understand?”
I said nothing. Trina looked down.
Patrick continued, “You’ve got no proof against us.”
“Think again!” said a familiar voice behind us.
Could it be? I hoped it was him, but I had to be sure. I looked around. Remi stood in the dog’s yard petting the St. Bernard, which chewed on the giant rawhide bone and wagged its tail.
“Remi, was that your trailer?” Trina asked, pointing at the white trailer.
He nodded.
“Didn’t you hear us knocking?” I asked.
“I was mad at you.”
“If you girls are done talking, we’ve got some business to take care of,” Dough Boy said.
“Put my friend down,” Remi ordered.
“What’re you going to do?” Dough Boy laughed.
“He’ll call the police,” I said.
Patrick looked up at Remi. “You gonna do what they tell you?”
Remi smiled. “Duh! What do you think?”
Patrick shook his head. “We’ll drop your friends in an open grave and let them spend the night in the cemetery with the creepy crawlies.”
Remi’s smile faded.
Dough Boy ordered, “Come out of the yard. Now!” He shook me around to make his point.
“I’ll come out,” Remi said.
“Don’t,” I said, but before I could say more, Dough Boy boxed my ear. “Ow!”
Beth growled at Remi. “What’s it going to be?”
He headed to the gate and unlatched it. Beth and Warren walked toward him.
When they were almost at the gate, Remi kicked it wide open and yelled, “Sic ‘em, Precious!”
A monster “WOOOOFFF!” erupted from the volcano mouth of the giant dog named Precious. She barrelled out of the yard after Warren and Beth, who ran for their lives. Dough Boy dropped me and ran after them. Patrick froze as Precious ran up to him, planted her giant paws on his chest, and lunged for his face. She licked him, slobbering drool all over his mouth and nose.
“Stupid mutt.” He pushed her off and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve. “Guys! Get back here.”
Down the lane, the other teenagers slowed down and turned around.
I yelled to Remi, “Patrick’s got the earring! Get him!”
Patrick stepped back, wrapping his arm around Trina’s neck. “You think you can do anything to me?”
Trina bit Patrick’s arm. He yelped, let go of Trina and dropped the earring.
“You little brat!” he yelled.
Trina ran into the dog yard with Precious while Remi dove to the gravel road and grabbed the earring. Patrick jumped on top of Remi and pinned him down. Beth, Warren and Dough Boy broke into a sprint toward us.
“Marty! Catch!” Remi tossed me the earring.
I caught it.
“Run!” Trina yelled.
Patrick climbed off Remi and charged after me. I took off toward the cemetery. The uneven ground was tough to run across, but I couldn’t slow down. I tripped on a rut and nearly fell over, but I stumbled forward until I regained enough momentum to stay upright.
Behind me, Patrick tripped on the same rut and went down. “You can’t run from me forever!” He yelled.
I climbed over the cemetery fence and looked back. Beth was helping Patrick up. There was no sign of Remi or Trina. Did they get away? I hoped so.
I ran through the prickly bushes and sprinted into the graveyard, zipping past the stone markers. The only sound I could hear was my own breathing. Patrick was right. I couldn’t run forever, but I couldn’t stop either. As I leapt over a low tombstone, my foot caught the edge. I sprawled on the ground and skidded to a halt in front of a headstone. Behind some weeds, there were four cans of spray paint. Jackpot! I scooped up the cans, which rattled against each other in my arms. I froze, hoping Patrick and Beth didn’t hear me. I listened for footsteps. Nothing. Whew. I loaded the cans into my giant corduroy pants. Now I was glad Mom had bought me such big pants — all four cans fit snugly inside the waistband. I hoped Trina and Remi got away from the teenagers and called the police. I hoped I could get out of the cemetery before the Ghouls caught me.
The last of the sunlight faded, leaving the cemetery in eerie darkness. I started toward the fence that separated the graveyard from the high school track field. The cans clicked against each other as I moved. When I stopped, the clicking also stopped, but now I could hear the Graffiti Ghouls crashing through the cemetery as they looked for me. It sounded like they were all around. I had to find a hiding spot, but where could I go?
I walked around the corner and tripped over my tape recorder. I picked it up, wondering if there was enough power to record a cry for help. Then my foot slipped on some loose dirt and I almost fell into the open grave. I started to back away, but then a thought stopped me. Patrick had threatened to throw me in the hole, which meant it would be the last place he’d look for me. But there was a good reason why; only dead people went inside graves. I shuddered at the thought of jumping in.
“I think he’s over here!” Beth yelled, sounding very close.
I had no choice. No time to waste, I tucked the tape recorder under my arm and climbed into the open grave. Please be empty, I thought. The last thing I needed to deal with was a real ghoul. I landed on soft dirt in complete darkness. I tapped my foot around the hole, feeling for a zombie that might’ve been down here with me. I was alone. At least I was safe from the undead; too bad my problem was with the living.
“Patrick, you see the little brat?” Beth asked, her voice sounding like it was directly over me.
“No,” Patrick said, panting. “That kid’s fast.”
Beth sounded angry. “He’s got to be here somewhere.”
“We should get out of here. If the other kids got away from Dough Boy and Warren, the cops’ll be here any minute.”
“We’re not leaving until we get my earring,” Beth said.
“At least let’s get rid of the paint,” Patrick said.
“Good idea.”
Footsteps ran away from me.
“They’re gone!” Patrick yelled from further away. “The punk took them.”
“Slanty Eyes couldn’t have gone far.”
I shifted toward the far end of the grave and crouched low. The cans clicked against each other. I froze.
“Did you hear that?”
“He’s in the hole!” Patrick shouted.
Beth yelled, “Get him!”
“Oooooommmmmm.” I moaned, pretending to be a zombie. “I smell feet go-oo-ood enough to-ooo-oo eeeeeeaaattt.”
“Nice try, Chinatown,” Beth said. “We know it’s you. Pull him out, Patrick.”
Arms reached into the hole. I ducked low, avoiding them for the moment. The tape recorder dug into my armpit. Stupid thing. If the batteries had been working I wouldn’t be in the hole right now; I’d be at the police station playing the Ghouls’ confession. A hand grabbed my jacket. Another hand caught my hair. I yelped as they began to lift me out of the hole. Last chance. I cranked up the volume on the tape recorder, punched the “Play” button, and dropped the machine.
Patrick and Beth hauled me out. I tried to scramble away, a couple of cans slipping out of my pants. He grabbed my leg while she tried to pry my hands open.
“We have to get out of here,” I said. “The Gangstas are going to climb out of the grave and eat us.”
Patrick punched the back of my thigh. “Shut up and give us the earring.”
Beth had almost pried open my right hand. “Give it up.”
“Wait a minute,” Patrick said. “Do you hear that?”
From the grave, a Chinese man’s voice moaned: “Haaaaaayyyy soooonnnnnn saaaiiiiiiiii jiiiiiiiiiiiiii.”
“Was anyone else in the hole with him?” Beth asked Patrick.
He shook his head. “This is too creepy.”
“Moooohhh fuuuuunnnnnnn gggguuuuuumm.” The Chinese opera singer at ultra-slow speed sounded positively undead.
Patrick and Beth backed away from the open grave.
“It’s a zombie,” I said. “I’m getting out of here.”
I struggled to get up, but Patrick pushed me down and vaulted over me. “Every man for himself!”
“Looooiiiiiiiiiii . . . ” The weak batteries finally gave out and the creepy Chinese opera singer faded out.
Beth grabbed my arm. “Nice trick. Not. Now give me the earring or I toss you in the hole with whoever’s down there.”
I held up the earring. “You want it? Go get it.”
I tossed the earring into the grave.
She grabbed my wrist and squeezed hard. “You’re going in.”
She pulled me toward the open grave. I dug my heels into the soft dirt, resisting. One foot slipped into the hole. I stepped back on solid ground, trying to pull away from Beth but she had a firm grip. I stomped on her booted foot, but it must have had steel toes because she didn’t yelp. Desperate, I dipped low and licked her hand, mimicking Precious’ wet slobbers.
“Gross!” she yelped, letting go.
I jumped back from the open grave and tried to run away, but Beth snagged the back of my collar. She dragged me toward the open hole. This time I was sure I was going in. Suddenly, flashing red and blue lights lit up Beth’s face and her furrowed eyebrows. A police cruiser, its lights flashing, rolled into the cemetery and cut off Patrick’s exit. He slowly raised his hands. Busted. In the back seat I could see someone fat and short and someone tall and skinny; they had to be Dough Boy and Warren. As the police officer climbed out of her car, Beth let go of my collar and raised her hands in the air. It was over.
The next day at school, the kids buzzed about the showdown at the cemetery. Some rumoured that the Gangstas rose from their graves to catch the Graffiti Ghouls. Others claimed I’d used kung fu to knock out bikers who were on a spray-painting spree. Trina put a stop to all the gossip and told the truth: Remi led Dough Boy and Warren on a wild goose chase through the trailer park so that she could get in his home and call the police. If it wasn’t for Remi’s fast feet and quick thinking, Trina would have never been able to call the cops, and I would have been mincemeat. Trina called him a hero, and Remi said that she was a heroine. The French girls apologised to Remi and followed him all over the school, while the Boissonault brothers punched him in the arm and told him he did a good job. The Rake apologised to Remi in front of everyone. He even took away Remi’s strikes.
The Graffiti Ghouls didn’t come from the trailer park like some kids suspected. They lived in the new suburbs of Bouvier, which put a stop to the rumours about criminals living in trailers, but this fact started brand new rumours about criminals who lived in the new suburbs. Gossip never went away; it just found new targets. I was glad that my friend’s name had been cleared, but there was a price. Mom and Dad grounded me for a month because I hadn’t gone home right after school like Mom said. But when they learned why, they cut my punishment to only two weeks.
As I headed home Remi and Trina caught up to me just outside the schoolyard.
“What’s your rush?” he asked.
“Mom’s got a ton of chores for me to do. Newton’s Law is nothing compared to Mom’s Justice,” I said.
Remi chuckled.
“Maybe we can help,” Trina said.
I shook my head. “I’m going to get lots of help. The Graffiti Ghouls have to clean off the paint and work at the store for a month.”
Remi held his hand up for a high five. I smacked his palm in victory. Then I held my hand up, inviting Trina to give me a high five. She smiled shyly then whacked my hand so hard I thought she’d broken my bones.
“You’re not so bad for a boy,” Trina said.
“Ow.” I rubbed my sore hand. “You mean I’m not so bad, period.”
“Wimp,” Remi teased. He held his hand up, and Trina smacked it hard. Crack! It sounded like car backfiring.
Remi flexed his hand, surprised.
“Hel-lo. Who’s the wimp now?” Trina teased.
“I’m not a wimp,” Remi said. “Snot gobbler.”
He playfully hip-checked Trina, but she barely budged. Instead she hip-checked him, knocking him back three or four steps. He smiled admiringly at Trina, who laughed so sweetly it sounded like music. Sure she was bossy, nosy, and a shameless gossip, but she was also strong, smart, and fun when she wanted to be. She beamed at me, her lips no longer stained with slushies. The thought of kissing Trina didn’t seem so bad now.